The locker room air stank of cheap body spray and old sweat. Katsuki slammed his locker shut, the metal ringing through the humid space. His shoulders were tight, coiled. He’d been like this for days.

“You good, man?” Eijiro Kirishima leaned against the next row of lockers, his toothy smile cautious. “You’ve been… intense.”

“I’m fine,” Katsuki grunted, not looking at him. He yanked his jacket from the hook. The fabric smelled faintly of home. Of him. It pissed him off.

“You seem pissed.”

“I’m not fucking pissed.” Katsuki turned, crimson eyes sharp. “I’m bored. This place is dead.”

Eijiro’s smile didn’t fade, but it softened. “You just had that thing with Camie, like, last week.”

“So?”

“So, usually you’re chill after. For a minute, anyway.” Eijiro pushed off the lockers. “You’re not chill. You’re vibrating.”

Katsuki stared at him. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead. He could feel the condom in his wallet, a hard outline against the leather. A habit. A promise. He was always prepared.

“Need to blow off steam,” Katsuki said finally, his voice lower. “That’s all.”

"You know anyone?" Katsuki's voice was flat, but his eyes were sharp on Kirishima's face. "Available."

Eijiro shifted his weight. The smile was gone now. "Available for what, man?"

"Don't be a fucking idiot." Katsuki turned and shoved open the locker room door. The hallway air was cooler, smelled like wax and dust. "I need to get laid."

He started walking, and Eijiro fell into step beside him, his sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. "I mean… maybe? But you just—"

"Camie's just being a crazy bitch," Katsuki cut him off, his eyes already scanning ahead down the hallway. "Avoiding me. Whatever. I need someone else."

The hallway stretched, all scuffed linoleum and fading championship banners. Katsuki’s eyes locked on a figure three lockers down. A girl. Mousy brown hair, hunched shoulders, head down as she fumbled with a combination.

“There,” he said, the word a quiet exhale.

Eijiro followed his gaze. “Ochako? Dude, she’s… quiet.”

“She’s available.” Katsuki’s posture changed. The restless energy coiled, purpose snapping into place. He started walking, his stride a lazy, confident roll. “Don’t wait up.”

“Katsuki, man—”

“What?” He didn’t break stride, just tossed the word over his shoulder. A challenge.

Eijiro’s voice dropped. “Nothing. Just… be cool.”

Katsuki didn’t answer. His focus narrowed to the girl—Ochako. Her uniform was too neat. Her socks were pulled up. She smelled like fabric softener and pencil lead from here. Innocent. Perfect.

He stopped beside her locker, one shoulder leaning against the cold metal. She flinched, her head whipping up. Big brown eyes, wide and startled.

“Need help with that?” His voice was low, a rough purr.

“N-no. I got it.” Her fingers trembled on the dial.

Katsuki watched them. Slender. Clean nails. No polish. He could feel the condom in his wallet, a persistent, promising weight. His cock stirred, a dull, heavy ache that had been building for days. Since the foyer. Since the taste of his mother’s mouth, sharp with critique and possession.

“You’re Ochako, right?” He shifted, crowding her space just an inch. The scent of her shampoo—something fruity, cheap—mixed with the warmer, saltier smell of her skin. “We have third period together. History.”

“Oh.” She blinked, finally getting her locker open. She stared at the contents like they were a lifeline. “Yeah. Right.”

“Boring as shit, that class.” He reached past her, his arm brushing her shoulder. He grabbed a textbook that wasn’t his from the top shelf. “Need something to make it interesting.”

Her breath hitched. The sound was small, tight. He felt it in his own chest.

“What do you want?” she whispered, finally looking at him. Her cheeks were flushed.

Katsuki smiled. It wasn’t friendly. It was all teeth. “You know what I want.” He leaned in, his mouth near her ear. His voice dropped to a murmur she had to strain to hear. “You’re gonna skip seventh with me. The old boiler room behind the gym. No one goes there.”

“I… I can’t.”

“You can.” He pulled back just enough to see her face. Her pupils were dilated. Fear. Interest. It was the same cocktail. It always was. “You will. Meet me there. Don’t be late.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He pushed off the locker, the stolen textbook still in his hand. He took two steps, then paused, looking back at her over his shoulder. She was still frozen, one hand clutching her locker door, knuckles white.

“Wear a skirt,” he said, the command flat and final. Then he turned and walked away, the ache between his legs a focused, demanding throb. A problem with a solution now in sight. A temporary, pale substitute for the only touch that could ever really settle him.

The old boiler room behind the gym smelled of damp concrete and rust. A single, caged bulb cast a sickly yellow glow over Katsuki where he leaned against a cold pipe, waiting. The distant thrum of the school’s heating system was the only sound until the metal door creaked open.

Ochako stood silhouetted in the doorway, her uniform skirt brushing her knees. She clutched her book bag to her chest like a shield.

“You came.” Katsuki’s voice was flat, absorbing the fact. He didn’t move from his slouch.

“You said not to be late.” Her voice was small, swallowed by the vast, damp space.

“Close the door.”

She did, the metallic clang echoing. The sound sealed them in. She didn’t move further from the door. Katsuki pushed off the pipe and took a slow step toward her. Her eyes tracked him, wide.

“Nervous?”

“A little.”

“Don’t be.” He stopped a foot away. The fruity shampoo was stronger now, undercut by the salt of her sweat. “You wanted to come.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did.” He reached out, didn’t touch her, just hooked a finger in the strap of her book bag. He tugged. “Or you wouldn’t be here. Let go.”

Her grip tightened for a second, then surrendered. The bag hit the concrete with a thud. He closed the last of the distance. His body heat reached her first. He saw the goosebumps rise on her arms.

“You smell like a fucking candy store.” He leaned in, his nose near her neck. She shuddered. “Cheap.”

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t be sorry.” His hand came up, his thumb brushing the line of her jaw. Her skin was soft, warm. “Just be quiet.”

He kissed her. It wasn’t gentle. It was a claim. His mouth was hard, demanding her lips to part, and they did with a soft gasp he swallowed. He tasted mint and the faint, metallic hint of her nervousness. His tongue swept in, and she made a tiny sound in her throat. He cupped the back of her head, fingers tangling in her mousy brown hair, holding her still for his exploration. His other hand slid down her side, over the crisp cotton of her blouse, finding the curve of her hip.

He broke the kiss, breathing hard. Her lips were wet, swollen. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. “See?” he murmured, his voice rough. “Not so scary.”

His hand on her hip moved, slipping under the hem of her uniform skirt. His fingers brushed the bare skin of her thigh. She jumped.

“Cold,” she breathed.

“I’ll warm you up.” His fingers climbed higher, tracing the lace edge of her underwear. She was already damp, the fabric warm under his touch. He pressed the heel of his hand against her, and her knees buckled. He held her up, pinning her against the door with his body. “Fuck. You’re soaked already.”

“Katsuki—”

“Shh.” He nuzzled her ear, his breath hot. “Just feel it.” He rubbed his hand against her, a slow, firm circle through the lace. The wetness spread, a hot slickness he could feel even through the barrier. Her breathing shattered into little gasps. He bit her earlobe, not hard, and she cried out.

“Need more,” he growled, and hooked his fingers in the lace, dragging it down her thighs. It caught at her knees. He didn’t bother going further. He just pushed the fabric aside.

His fingers found her bare, hot, and slick. He traced her opening, a slow, teasing circle that made her whole body tense. “Fuck, you’re tight.” He pushed one finger inside, just to the first knuckle. She was clenching around nothing, a desperate, hot pulse. He pushed deeper, his own cock throbbing in time with her heartbeat. “That’s it. Take it.”

He worked his finger in and out, a slow, brutal rhythm. His other hand fumbled with his belt, his fly. The ache was a burning pressure now, a need that drowned out the buzzing in his head, the ghost of his mother’s body. This was simple. This was physical. This he could control.

He freed himself, his cock springing heavy and thick into his hand. He was already leaking, a bead of moisture slicking his thumb.

He didn’t ask. He just spun her around, his hands rough on her hips, pressing her front against the cold metal of the door. The textbook-thud of her heart was a drumbeat through her back. “Stay.”

He tore the condom wrapper with his teeth, sheathed himself in one practiced motion. The latex was cool, a stark contrast to his burning skin. He nudged her legs apart with his knee. “Wider.”

She obeyed, a shaky exhale fogging the metal in front of her face. Her skirt was pushed up, bunched around her waist. The pale curve of her ass was exposed, trembling. He ran the head of his cock through the slickness he’d worked out of her, coating himself in her heat. A low groan escaped him. “Fuck. Told you you wanted it.”

“Just… hurry.” Her voice was muffled, strained.

“I don’t hurry.” He positioned himself, the broad tip pressing against her entrance. He leaned over her, his chest to her back, his mouth at her ear. “You take it. All of it.”

He pushed.

The first inch was a tight, hot surrender. She cried out, a sharp sound swallowed by the damp room. He held there, letting her adjust, feeling her inner muscles flutter and clench around the intrusion. “Breathe.”

She sucked in a ragged breath. He sank deeper, a slow, inexorable slide that stretched her, filled her. The wet sound was obscene. Perfect. He was buried to the hilt, his hips flush against her ass. He stayed there, panting, his forehead against her shoulder. For a second, the world narrowed to this: heat, pressure, the chemical smell of latex, the fruity tangle of her hair. It was almost enough to silence the other want, the one that smelled like jasmine and home.

He moved, a slow withdrawal followed by a sharp, deep thrust that punched the air from her lungs. The wet slap of skin filled the damp room. His rhythm was punishing, controlled, each drive of his hips meant to imprint, to claim. But behind his clenched teeth, behind the sweat beading on his brow, he wasn’t here. He was ten years old, padding into the steamy bathroom after a nightmare.

“Mommy?”

The shower curtain was translucent. The shape behind it—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, the curve of a ass, the powerful line of a thigh. The water shut off. The curtain rings screeched. Izuku stepped out, dripping, a towel in his hands. He didn’t startle. Just looked at his son, his green eyes soft. “Bad dream, baby?”

“Yeah.”

“Come here.” Izuku knelt, towel wrapped around his hips, and pulled Katsuki into his damp, warm chest. The smell of jasmine soap and clean skin. The feeling of safety. The first, confused stir of something else, looking down at the top of his mother’s head, at the strong line of his bare back.

“Katsuki—” Ochako’s voice, strained and thin, dragged him back. Her knuckles were white where they pressed against the door.

“What?” he grunted, not breaking pace. His grip on her hips tightened, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh.

“It’s… it’s a lot.”

“You wanted a lot.” He drove into her harder, chasing the memory away with friction. But it just reshaped. Now he was fifteen, walking past Izuku’s half-open bedroom door late at night. His mother was standing in front of his full-length mirror, shirtless, in just a pair of low-slung sweats. The defined planes of his chest, the puffy nipples of his breasts, the trail of dark hair leading down. Izuku’s hand was on his own stomach, his head tilted, a contemplative look on his face. He caught Katsuki’s reflection in the glass. Didn’t cover up. Just smiled, slow. “Like what you see, Kacchan?”

A pet name. A challenge. Katsuki had flushed, muttered an insult, and kept walking. He’d jerked off in his shower for an hour after.

“Fuck,” he snarled now, the memory heating his blood more than the body under him. His thrusts lost their measured control, turning ragged, desperate. He fucked her like he could exorcise the image, bury it in this anonymous, candy-scented heat.

But it was no use. The feel of her, tight and wet, just twisted into the fantasy. This wasn’t her back under his hands. It was Izuku’s. This wasn’t her ass meeting his hips. It was the firm, perfect curve of his mother’s. The condom was a maddening barrier. He wanted to feel everything. He wanted his mother’s heat, direct and claiming.

“You gonna come?” he growled into her ear, his voice thick with a want that wasn’t for her.

“I—I don’t know.”

“Try harder.” He slid a hand around her front, down the soft plane of her stomach, through the coarse hair. He found her clit, swollen and slick. He pressed a rough circle. Her whole body seized, a sharp cry tearing from her throat. “There. That’s it. Come on my cock. Do it.”

He felt her clamp around him, a frantic, fluttering pulse. She shook, silent sobs wracking her frame as the climax took her. He kept moving, fucking her through it, using her spasms to push himself closer to the edge. He closed his eyes.

Izuku’s face filled the darkness. Not smiling. Not gentle. His eyes were dark, possessive, his lips parted. The look from the foyer after Camie left. The look that said, “You’re mine.”

Katsuki came with a choked, guttural sound, his hips stuttering, driving deep as he emptied himself into the latex. His forehead dropped against Ochako’s sweaty back. For a few seconds, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the distant groan of the school’s pipes.

He pulled out. The condom was full, heavy. He disposed of it quickly, mechanically, tying it off and tucking it into an empty wrapper. He tucked himself back into his uniform pants, zipped up. The emptiness rushed back in, colder than before.

Ochako slid down the door to sit on the concrete, her skirt a rumpled pool around her waist. She didn’t look at him.

Katsuki leaned against the opposite wall, waiting for his breathing to steady. The ghost of jasmine was still in his nose. The hollow in his chest was wider. He looked at the girl on the floor, a used, trembling thing. She wasn’t the one he wanted to ruin.

“Get up,” he said, his voice flat. “Bell’s gonna ring.”